


fleeting

by erinwrites



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, Humanity, Missing Scenes, Oops, Post TST, Sherlolly - Freeform, angsty, i needed more sherlolly, minor existential crisis, posthumous matchmaking, spoilers for 'The Six Thatchers', survivor's guilt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-12
Updated: 2017-01-12
Packaged: 2018-09-16 23:56:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,707
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9295262
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/erinwrites/pseuds/erinwrites
Summary: Post s4e1 - The Six Thatchers; contains spoilers for season 4!Sherlock gets a push. A sort of extension of that heartbreaking scene at the Watsons.'





	

“Go to hell, Sherlock,” Mary Watson deadpans on his laptop screen, a voice from the grave in blonde and blue, the hint of a smile teasing at her lips.

“Oh, and a word of advice? Molly’s not going to wait around forever,” she says before the video cuts and he’s left staring at a blank screen with Mrs. Hudson at his shoulder. They sit in silence for a moment, as if Mary might suddenly decide to continue.

In the empty space, Mrs. Hudson puts two and two together, turns to Sherlock with a question on her lips.

“Is she talking about Molly Hooper? Oh for heaven’s sake. What does Molly have to do with any of this?” Mrs. Hudson asks, bemused, realizing too late that she’s speaking to an empty chair.

“Not important, Mrs. Hudson,” Sherlock calls over his shoulder, already halfway down the stairs, shrugging his Belstaff on as he goes. He pauses, turning back with a tight-lipped saccharine smile, “Would you be a dear, Mrs. Hudson, and pick up some of those chocolate biscuits please?” he asks, and he’s out the door before she can get a word in edgewise.

Mrs. Hudson sighs, pursing her lips and sharing an exasperated look with Billy the skull, who stares back unblinking from the mantlepiece. “Not your housekeeper,” she mutters, shaking her head, though she supposes, on account of everything that’s happened, that she can pop round to the shops just this once.

Work is the best antidote to sorrow, after all.

* * *

He finds himself, as he often does when he needs to think, on the banks of the Thames. It’s not frigid, but there’s a biting wind that catches his coat and curls, and the promise of drizzle hangs damp in the air. The tide’s out, and the city’s awash in a gray mist. He allows the overcast skies to cloud his mood, drifting into a thoughtful sort of melancholy. A loneliness of head and heart.

Mary never ceases - ceased, he reminds himself, no use denying it - to amaze him with her perspicacity, particularly in human matters. The sentimental realm is - was - far more her territory than it is his. And it’s true that Molly Hooper is…something to him.

A friend, certainly. A confidante. A partner in deceit, if not outright crime.

It’s true, too, that they’ve grown closer, in the years since his return from the dead. He values her opinion, which is a distinction in and of itself.

And she’s more or less single at the moment, a few superficial dates with Garrett - Gabriel? Gibson? - aside. (He’s had enough of Molly’s inane feline’s hair on his own jacket to recognize it on somebody else’s.) He’d been sincere when he’d told Lestrade she wasn’t the one, though the gibe to John about the three illegitimate children had, of course, been a bluff. He’s learned that it’s best to maintain a certain level of ambiguity, particularly where the love lives of others are concerned. Call it personal growth.

And if he maintains a certain level of ambiguity in his own love life too, it should hardly be a surprise to anyone. Least of all himself.

His thoughts turn to Mary’s other, more pressing case: save John Watson. A case that would be much easier if he knew what he was up against, though he can imagine a whole host of potential adversaries.

One of those adversaries is John Watson himself.

Another is Sherlock Holmes.

He sighs, staring out across the Thames, ruffling a gloved hand through his hair. Someday, perhaps, John will forgive him for this mess, but there’s no telling how long it might take. For now, Sherlock can hardly forgive himself.

He made a vow, and broke it. Three little Indians, and then there were two.

Mycroft’s voice rings in his ear, and he’s reminded of being age six, tin can telephones strung between their bedrooms, an old Folgers’ coffee tin pressed against his ear. _Caring is not an advantage, Sherlock._  For the first time in a long time, since meeting John, maybe, he thinks the words might hold an echo of truth.

Reaching into his pocket, he pulls out his phone, checking the time. If he leaves now, he could make it to the Watsons’ house before sunset. Earlier if he gets one of the better cabbies.

He doubts John will see him, but he supposes he ought to make an effort.

He takes another breath, another inhale and exhale that should have belonged to Mary Watson: Survivor’s guilt. A craving for a cigarette, a needle, anything: Unhealthy coping mechanism. He’s no stranger to psychiatry, but naming his conditions does not, unfortunately, help them cease to exist.

The first droplets of drizzle begin to fall as he raises his arm to call a cab, just in time to avoid being drenched by an unexpectedly heavy rainfall but too late to be saved from the heaviness of his thoughts.

* * *

He knows she’s there as soon as the cab rolls into the drive. There are two extra lights on in the Watsons’ basement flat, and, though he’s hardly the authority on John Watson lately, he can’t imagine that John’s tendency to be positively anal about light switches has been altered by his grief-addled state or the trials and tribulations of fatherhood. (“Have you seen the bloody electric bill, Sherlock!? I am not made of money, Jesus Christ.”) One extra light might be excusable. Two suggests a visitor.

A quick shuffle through his mental rolodex of John’s acquaintances rules out most other parties. He’d left Mrs. Hudson at 221B mere hours ago, and she’d expressed no plans to visit. It’s a workday, so Giles - Geoff? - is ostensibly unavailable. Harry’s back on the bottle, a poorly timed though regrettably inevitable lapse. Molly works irregular hours at the best of times, and she’d feel obligated to help as one of Rosie’s godmothers, sensitive to the adversity of losing a parent. It’s not a difficult deduction to make.

With a frown, he notes that John’s list of close friends has grown somewhat short.

He shoves a wad of bills at the cabbie and disembarks into a somnolent drizzle, a serendipitous lull in the downpour that’s been pelting the cab since they left the city center. It’s not pleasant by any means, but it’s better than getting soaked. Or being dead.

Not much in his life is pleasant these days, and he’ll take the little victories.

He steps into the Watsons’ little covered entryway, pressing the plastic doorbell just once. He considers pressing it repeatedly until someone answers, but thinks better of it. Serious visits call for serious behavior.

There’s a long pause, during which he might have once picked the lock, but then there’s a scuffle behind the door, the muffled notes of a conversation. Finally, just as he’s getting fed up, the door opens, and Molly steps out holding Rosie, shutting it behind her.

And damn Mary and her posthumous matchmaking, because he can’t help but notice how his pulse quickens at the sight of her.

“Hi,” she says, barely louder than a murmur, Rosie gurgling quietly in her arms. Staring at him in that entirely disarming way that she has, trust and betrayal and fear and longing all mingling in her eyes.

He takes her in, bags under her eyes, raw from tears and lack of sleep, sweater hanging looser on her body than it should, careful braids and ponytails abandoned for a hasty knot at the nape of her neck, and he feels a pang of guilt, sharp in his gut.

“I just..” he trails, gathering his thoughts. “wondered. How things were going, and,” he swallows, because she looks positively torn and it’s his fault, “if there was anything I could do.”

Molly balances Rosie on her hip, rooting around in her pocket before holding a crumpled note out to him, a sheet of notepaper folded into quarters. “It’s…It’s from John.”

“Right,” he says, taking the note, a thumbnail already sliding between the folds.

“You don’t have to read it now,” Molly says, rapidly, the words tumbling out of her mouth. Abort ship. He thinks she might have laughed at his eagerness had the circumstances been different.

“I’m sorry, Sherlock,” she continues, stumbling over his name the way she used to, before they were on equal ground. “He says, J-John said, if you were to come ‘round, asking after him, offering to help…”

She bites her lip, a bit, and he’s afraid she might cry. She shouldn’t have to be the one delivering this message, and he’s struck for the hundredth time by her unwavering loyalty to her friends. Those she cares about.

_Are you okay? Don’t just say you are, because I know what that means, looking sad when you think no one can see you._

“Yes,” he says, willing her to continue.

“He…said he’d…r-“ she trails off again. “That he’d rather have anyone but you,” she finally forces out, “anyone.”

Realization dawns in his eyes, his mouth setting itself into a resigned frown, because he won’t go against John’s wishes. Not this time. Not ever again.

Molly bows her head, breaking gaze, clutching Rosie and moving to make her way inside.

“Molly, wait, I…” he trails, because he’s not ready to let her go.

She pauses with her hand on the doorknob, but doesn’t turn back, eyes blinking shut. Haggard. “Sherlock, I’m sorry,” she says, not meeting his eyes, sucking in a breath that’s dangerously close to being a sob. “I’m sorry.”

“What about you?” he asks, suddenly. “Are you…” he trails off, because nobody is ‘alright’ these days.

She sighs, hoisting Rosie up and over to her other hip, turning back but not meeting his eyes.

“I’m fine. Fine as anyone, I suppose. Happy to help, really.”

_I don’t count._

“Molly,” he says, because what else is there to say.

“You know,” she continues, sounding borderline hysterical, “I always thought they were exaggerating, a bit, about what a handful this one was, but she is a bit much, to be honest.” She pauses, bouncing Rosie on her hip, who gurgles happily, the picture of innocence. “I mean, I don’t know the whole of it, but Mary really was prepared for all this, made some tapes and things. Nursery rhymes, songs, bedtime stories, the like. There’s a few for when she gets older, too,” Molly sniffs, her voice thready. “Mostly they just,” she chokes, and she’s truly sobbing now. “Mostly they just make her cry,” she chokes out, pressing the fist of her free hand to her mouth in an attempt to stifle her tears.

“Molly,” he says again, and it’s oddly natural to wrap her in his arms, head tucked under his chin and Rosie nestled between them, rubbing her arms as she calms down.

She extricates herself from his arms as she composes herself, wiping tears from underneath her eyes with an index finger and looking up at him through her lashes in a way that makes him want to pull her back into his arms.

“Sorry,” she says sheepishly, giving him a watery half-smile that doesn’t meet her eyes. “It’s just…all of it. Mary. Brings back Mum and Dad too, for me.” She lets out a shaky breath. “It’s a lot. I’ll be alright,” another tight-lipped, unconvincing smile. “Um, thanks, Sherlock. For stopping by, I guess. Say bye Rosie?”

Rosie gurgles unintelligibly.

“Bye, Sherlock,” Molly says, and he finds he’s still not ready to let her go.

“I, um,” his brow furrows, fumbling for anything to say. “Sorry it didn’t work out with, er…”

“Greg,” she supplies, suspicion clouding her features.

_You always say such horrible things, every time, always._

“Yes.”

Seemingly reassured that he isn’t going to say anything acerbic, she shrugs. “I mean, he’s a great bloke. But it’s a bit strange, isn’t it, being out with a guy whose marriage you’ve watched fall apart a half dozen odd times.”

“Quite,” Sherlock says, at a loss.

“I guess you wouldn’t…oh, never mind.” Molly says.

A beat passes between them, punctuated by a shriek from Rosie.

“Little devil,” Molly mutters under her breath.

She shifts Rosie from one hip to the other again, bouncing her a bit to calm her fussing. Sherlock is suddenly struck by how natural she seems, and he suddenly finds Mary’s message to be poignant. Timely.

_Oh, and a word of advice? Molly’s not going to wait around forever._

The question is out of his mouth before he can stop it. “Coffee, Molly?”

She looks a bit baffled at the non-sequitur, turning back to him, eyes searching his. Belatedly, he realizes that she’s checking if his pupils are dilated. If he’s high.

_How dare you betray the love of your friends._

She ascertains quickly that he’s not, though the confusion doesn’t leave her features, and she gestures toward the door with her free hand. “Um, John’s got a pot on actually. Pretty much all the time. Not sure he’s sleeping much, really,” she cringes. “Um, thanks for offering though?” It comes out more as a question than a statement, and she squints up at him as if he might have hit his head on something while she wasn’t looking.

_Black, two sugars please, I’ll be upstairs._

“Ah. Quite.”

She gives him another counterfeit smile, though he thinks there might be a bit of affection hidden behind this one, and he wonders if she’s in on the joke after all. “Goodbye, Sherlock.”

“Bring Rosie round 221B sometime, would you?” he finds himself asking. “Mrs. Hudson would like to see her, I’m sure. And you, too. Both of us.” He shuts his mouth abruptly before he can make any more emotional declarations today.

“I’ll do my best,” she says. And before he knows what’s happening, she’s rising onto her toes, steadying herself with a hand on his chest, pressing a kiss audaciously close to the corner of his mouth.

“Thanks for stopping by, Sherlock,” she says giving him one last loaded glance before she slips inside.

“Goodbye, Molly,” he says absently to the closed door, blinking, a hand rising to his cheek, where her lips had been moments before.

Ruffling his hair, he turns to the street, realizing dumbly, that he ought to have asked his cabbie to wait.

He swears under his breath.

Then he calls Lestrade.

He picks up on the third ring. "What do you want, Sherlock?"

Sherlock affects his best friendly tone. "Gilderoy! How are you?"

Radio silence.

Sherlock pulls his phone away from his ear, checking the screen. The call is still connected. "Hello?" he repeats.

"Gilderoy?" Lestrade splutters into the phone. "Really? Honestly now you're just getting creative, aren't you. Take the bloody bus, Sherlock. I'm not your personal cab driver, I’ve told you you can’t keep giving you rides about town like some sort of personal chauffeur.”

"Gideon?" Sherlock tries.

"Take. The. Bus."

Sherlock frowns, attempting a new tactic. "Please?" he asks.

Lestrade sighs on the other end of the phone line. "I will come pick you up from the Watsons' or wherever the bloody hell you are under one condition, Sherlock."

"Yes?"

"Tell me my first name." And Lestrade disconnects the call.

Sherlock frowns, giving his phone an affronted glare.

"Grant?" he fires off in a text.

The reply is near instant: "Strike one, Sherlock"

"Garrison?" he tries again.

"Strike two"

In a last resort, he texts Molly.

"Nice try," she replies, much to his dismay.

Another text follows: "Shortcut thru the neighbors alley behind, quicker than the main road - next bus at 6:15 xx"

He checks the time: 6:03. Offhandedly, he wonders if Mrs. Hudson got his biscuits.

“Greyson?” He fires off to Lestrade.

"Strike three. You're out."

It's starting to rain again.

Sherlock resists the urge to throw his phone.

* * *

Nearly an hour later, a waterlogged Sherlock Holmes makes his way back to 221B Baker Street to find a box of chocolate biscuits sitting on his desk.

Bless Mrs. Hudson.

He's collapsed in his armchair, chewing on his third biscuit when he notices the yellow post it note stuck haphazardly to the box, which he's ceremoniously discarded onto the floor.

"NORBURY," it reads in capital letters, then in parenthesis underneath, "not your housekeeper!"

_If you ever think I’m becoming a bit full of myself, cocky or overconfident..._

Though, he muses, she's had the levity to draw a smiley face, so she can't have been too bothered. Not like the time he'd thought to use the entry stairs to study blood spatter and bruising patterns using dismembered limbs he'd borrowed from the morgue. She'd been positively livid.

He cringes at the memory and stands to bin the note, but then thinks better of it, instead striding up and over the coffee table to stick the note where he can see it. A reminder.

He'll make it up to her, somehow. All of them, really, John, Molly, Lestrade. Mary, even. Especially Mary.

Mary's the reason he's here to see it at all, and he's suddenly struck by how incredibly, terrifyingly fleeting life is. One minute Mary was alive, breathing, loving, living, the next she was jumping in front of a bullet meant for him.

_Oh, and a word of advice?_

He retrogrades over the coffee table back to his armchair, wresting another biscuit from the plastic sleeve and holding it in his teeth as he pulls out his mobile, navigating back to Molly's last text.

_'Next bus at 6:15 xx'_

Buses still run, rain still falls, life goes on. His fingers absently brush his cheek, the phantom of an innocent goodbye still alive and warm on his skin. Between bites of biscuit, he considers the possibilities from here, fingers hovering over his phone keyboard.

In the end, he sods it and hits call. It connects after a few rings.

“Sh-“ she cuts off with a small cough, and he realizes John’s probably in the room. “Um, hi. Do you need something?”

_What do you need?_

_You_

“Er,” he replies, realizing that he’s not sure what to say, hadn’t planned this beyond pressing call on his mobile. “No, no, I, uh…” he trails off.

Molly seems to understand, somehow. “Hang on,” she says, and he faintly hears ‘can you take her?’ imagines Rosie being passed off from one set of loving arms to another. The faint sound of footsteps moving, carpet, hardwood, carpet. A closing door.

“Okay,” she says, this time into the phone. “Sorry, I didn’t want…you know. Are you okay, did you catch the bus back?”

“Yes,” he finds himself answering. “Though you could have warned me about the neighbors’ dog.”

“Oh! Trixie? German Shepherd? She’s harmless, really, bark is worse than her bite if you know what I mean.” she giggles nervously. “I suppose she must have caught you off guard, though.”

“It was fine.”

“Sorry. It’s Greg, for the record.” He can hear her smile through the phone, and it’s a small comfort. 

“Greg. Thank you.” He files that piece of information away. He’s resolved to make an effort. A recompense.

Speaking of.

“Molly?”

“What is it, Sherlock?” she says, concerned.

_I think I’m going to die._

“Nothing - well, not nothing. Just, thank you. For being there for John and Rosie. For…me.” He swallows against palatable sentiment. “I didn’t say it earlier.”

A shaky breath on the end of the phone. He hopes he hasn’t made her cry for the second time today. “Thanks. For thanking me, I mean. But…sorry, is that…did you call me just to say that?”

Forever is a luxury that he doesn’t have. Life is incredibly, terrifyingly fleeting. He takes a breath.

“Would you like to have dinner, Molly?”

“Dinner,” she repeats cautiously. She’s going to make him spell this one out.

“With me,” he pauses. “A…date.”

“Oh! Oh, I…” she goes quiet. “Sherlock I swear to god if you are high right now -“

“No!” he cuts her off. “No, I wouldn’t, not with..no. I…” _A word of advice?_ “I’ve gained some perspective.”

There’s a long silence on the end of the line, and he gives her the time to think, ready to backpedal at a moment’s notice.

“Sherlock,” she finally says, in that breathy way she has, and it clenches at his heart. “Don’t feel like you have to do this just because Mary -“

“She had something to do with it, I confess,” he cuts in. “But that’s not why I’m asking, Molly.”

“Why now, then, Sherlock?” she volleys back, defensive, an unfamiliar edge to her voice.

Because later isn’t a guarantee. Because nothing is certain. Because time flies like the bees his father kept when he was a child, careless, before tin can telephones became rivalry, before pirates became syringes, before Redbeard became a memory. Seconds and eons ago, all at once.

“I’m only human,” he replies. “Mary reminded me of that.”

“So you decided you’d have dinner….with me.” It’s a statement, not a question. Clarifying. She sounds dumbfounded, and he reminds himself that he’s given her no warning.

“Yes, Molly.”

“Um. Okay. Yes. Oh my god, what am I even…yes. Of course. Um. I don’t know my schedule offhand, haven’t had a chance to look at it, but -“

“Molly.”

“Sorry,” she says. “It’s just, I never expected -“

He stifles a smile, can’t deny that he’s pleased to still be able to catch her off guard. _You can see me._

“Neither did I.” It’s the truth. “I always miss something,” he jokes.

“Well. I’m told it’s not your area.”

He hums in agreement, content to let the quiet settle between them, the radio-wave static of respiration the only sign of life. Of being alive.

“I..” she says, too soon, “Rosie’s fussing, downstairs. I should..I should go. I can text you?”

“Yes. Always.”

“Right. Um, well, bye? I’ll see you. Soon. Dinner.” She lets out a little breathless laugh, and it’s music to his ears.

“Goodbye, Molly.”

“Okay. Bye. See you,” she says again, just before she disconnects.

A smile drifts across his lips.

* * *

“Go to Hell, Sherlock,” Mary Watson deadpans on his laptop screen, a voice from the grave in blonde and blue.

He thinks he ought to thank her when he gets there.

**Author's Note:**

> I didn't think it would take me this long to write this and it was meant to be published before The Lying Detective, but there were a few sticking points along the way. I think it still fits into canon with TLD if you squint, but I have this funny feeling it's going to be blown out of the water on Sunday. AUs are nice too. 
> 
> I'm aware that Molly is not considered an officer, but I have a soft spot for Molstrade (I blame 'An Avalanche of Detour Signs' by gyzym, which is spectacular), and that's definitely not brunette hair on Lestrade's jacket. Plus Sherlock is messing with everyone in that scene. Headcanons are funny little things. 
> 
> Also, Sherlock not knowing Greg's name is my favorite running joke. 
> 
> Yes, I did watch that final Sherlock/Molly scene far too many times with the excuse of getting the dialogue correct.
> 
> I have trouble pinning down Sherlock's voice, so hopefully he doesn't come across out of character. 
> 
> Reviews, comments, and constructive criticisms are always welcome!!


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